


The More We Are Hurt

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The presence of another person makes Justin feel alive, like he can taste the air he breathes instead of just using it to exist.” Justin lacks experience but has more than enough intent for himself and Giriko both. No plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Metal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiny_Pichu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiny_Pichu/gifts).



Giriko is a pain to live with. He is obnoxious and messy and he  _sprawls_ , expands to fill Justin’s apartment until the space seems far too small for one person, much less two. There is always a leg thrown over the back of the couch or an arm stretched over the entire countertop, cans on the coffee table and scuff marks on the walls, idly shredded newspaper on the floor, table, chair, dirty dishes in the sink and the sound of Giriko’s voice keeping Justin awake at night.

Justin  _loves_  it.

The space that was so empty before, the apartment that held his body when he didn’t have an assignment, feels like a home now. The presence of another person makes him feel alive, like he can taste the air he breathes instead of just using it to exist. He  _does_  things now, cleans or argues or stares instead of quietly existing; before he would sometimes spend hours sitting still, staring out the window or at the wall with little regard for what he was seeing. Now all his blood is moving all the time, racing under his skin and through his veins like Giriko is the motor Justin’s clockwork needed to become an actual person instead of an automaton.

He spends days watching the other weapon, tracing the angle of his jawline or the curve of his shoulders or the twist of his wrist with his eyes. Giriko has three metal earrings through his left earlobe, one through his right, and a flat inlay over the bridge of his nose; they are colored silver but probably steel in actual composition. His teeth are symmetrical and sharp-pointed, like every one is a canine, and his dark eyes are always shifting, bored after a few seconds of watching any given subject.

Giriko has gotten bored of Justin when the priest finally approaches. He watches the other weapon longer than most things, glaring at his eyes or staring at the hem of his robe, but he has collapsed back on the couch and is watching the TV, one hand playing with the chain around his neck while the other is tucked behind his head. Justin leans over the back of the couch, glances at the television for a moment before disregarding the show -- a soap opera, he thinks -- in favor of watching Giriko watch it. The other weapon’s mouth is curved down into his usual frown, eyes flickering over the images on the screen. Justin fixes his eyes on the corner of Giriko’s mouth, the dip of lip over teeth; he stares for several seconds, going on a minute, before the other weapon looks up sharply.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snaps, quick with habit. His eyes flicker down to Justin’s jaw, shoulder, back to his eyes. Justin reaches out to lay his hand against the side of Giriko’s face, holding the other weapon still; Giriko nearly jerks away from the contact, Justin can feel the muscles of his neck tighten, but keeps himself still and settles for glaring instead. He opens his mouth to say something else, almost certainly vulgar, and Justin closes the distance to match his lips to Giriko’s.

The other weapon freezes. Justin can feel the tension under his hand, against Giriko’s jaw and throat and lips. Justin is close enough that he would feel his eyelashes if the chainsaw blinked, would feel his breath if he breathed. He does neither.

Giriko tastes like rust and oil and Justin’s heart shouldn’t race like it does at the flavor permeating the air against his lips, but it does. He blinks, his eyes focus on the metal loop in front of his eyes, and when he slides his tongue past Giriko’s lips he can feel the razor-edge of those impossibly sharp teeth. The chainsaw huffs an exhale at the touch of Justin’s tongue against the roof of his mouth; for a moment Justin thinks he might bite down but he doesn’t, just stays impossibly still, more still than the chainsaw has ever been that Justin has seen. Their lips catch together, stick for a moment when the priest pulls away. His mouth is full of the taste of Giriko, his tongue tingling with the pressure from those teeth. When he pulls his hand back his palm is hot with borrowed heat, his skin prickling with the sensation of stubble and the texture of unfamiliar skin.

Giriko stares at him, mouth still open, eyes wide and shocked as Justin has never seen him and stunningly silent for the first time. Justin smiles. The motion is strange, pulls at his face as it doesn’t usually; he can feel his eyes turning up at the corners, like the curve of his smile is reaching his whole face.

When he unfolds, leans up and away from the couch, Giriko follows, sitting up as Justin retreats as if they are connected by invisible thread.

“You--” the other weapon starts. Justin waits for more but nothing is forthcoming, vulgarity or affection both absent. After a moment Giriko huffs an exhale, drops back down to the couch and turns away to face the television. The chainsaw doesn’t move or speak until the episode is over. It is as quiet as Justin has seen him since they came back to Death City.


	2. Poison

Giriko’s retaliation takes a few days. Justin expected something immediately following his initial approach, but after the chainsaw went utterly still and silent he gave up on any immediate response. Still, he’s ready for  _something_. When he comes in from another meeting in the Death Room and Giriko is waiting against the wall by the door, Justin’s thoughts catch up before his heartrate does. He has a moment of clarity --  _ah, this will be the follow-up_  -- as he shuts the door, and then he can’t breathe and can’t look at anything but Giriko’s mouth.

“Hello,” he says. His voice sounds very distant and very foreign, like he’s listening to himself through headphones. “Did you need something?” That is formal, stilted and stiff like he sounds in the Death Room, but he can’t remember how to relax and his hand is frozen on the handle of the door.

“Yeah,” Giriko snaps. If Justin hadn’t been listening to the grate of the chainsaw’s voice instead of sleeping for a week, he wouldn’t note the shake under the low sound. When he swallows Justin’s eyes follow the movement of his throat and it takes him a moment to refocus on the chainsaw’s mouth.

“Can’t let a fucking  _priest_  one-up me,” he mutters, and Justin is pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that but he doesn’t have a chance to respond. Giriko steps in over the distance between them and Justin would back up if he had anywhere to go or were at all inclined to move away. As it is the chainsaw is in his personal space, breathing his air, and they are the same height, their eyes would be entirely level if Justin could look away from the other weapon’s mouth.

Giriko grins, a slash of teeth under tight lips. “See something you like?” That is supposed to be teasing, clear with control, but it shakes at the end, Justin can see his throat tremble when he swallows again. The priest looks up from Giriko’s mouth, drags his eyes up over cheekbones to brown eyes, and he doesn’t quite follow the sound of his voice but he recognizes fear in the dark-dilated pupils.

Giriko brings his hands up on either side of Justin’s head, slams them against the door. Justin is supposed to flinch. He doesn’t, doesn’t even blink. Giriko grimaces, a frown flickering over his mouth before he reigns in his reaction. He leans in, covering the distance until Justin can’t see his mouth, and says something but it is too soft for the priest to hear and too close for him to see. Justin blinks and can’t open his eyes, just sucks in air heavy with the burn of metal. Then he takes another breath, and another, and when the expected sensation of lips on his doesn’t come he opens his eyes.

Giriko is staring at his cheek, breathing hard against his mouth and still as if he never expects to move again. Justin blinks and the other weapon’s eyes flicker to his. This close he can see flecks of grey around the chainsaw’s irises, darkening the pale brown to almost black, can see the fringe of eyelashes framing the color.

“Fuck,” Giriko says, and it is so close that Justin can feel the harsh consonants against his tongue, and just as he breathes in deep to fill his lungs with metal the chainsaw crushes his lips against the priest’s. Justin’s lip catches on tooth, pulls painful before it comes free just short of tearing. He starts to smile, fights the motion back so he can tip his head to line up with Giriko’s instead. He doesn’t lift his hands from his sides, but the angle of his head brushes his hair against Giriko’s thumb and he can’t quite fight back the movement that drags the skin under his ear against the chainsaw’s finger.

Giriko growls and the thumb lifts up, catches around Justin’s ear so his fingers can dig into soft blond hair. The priest angles his head against the chainsaw’s palm and Giriko’s teeth are against his lips, catching sharp for a moment before he lets go and slides his tongue past Justin’s lips. The priest lets his jaw go loose, drops the weight of his head against Giriko’s palm, and the chainsaw’s fingers are callused and his hand is far larger than Justin’s own, fingers against his forehead while his palm lies against his chin, but Giriko’s tongue is tracing the flat line of his teeth and Justin is making some unintentional sound back in his throat and the fingers in his hair are going tight, scraping fingernails over his scalp. Justin’s hands are coming up without his intention, Giriko’s hair is  _soft_  against his fingers, and his shoulders are coming off the door to press his body flush with the chainsaw’s and Giriko is pulling back, breathing hard and fast against Justin’s panting lips.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he is hissing, hard and fast into Justin’s skin, and Justin has lost all sense of time and space outside of Giriko’s fingers on his skin and Giriko’s breath invading his and he would do anything right now if the other weapon asked it of him.

Giriko’s hand slides down, grips his shoulder through his mantle, and Justin hits the door behind him so hard the air gusts from his lungs with the impact.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the chainsaw enunciates, razor-sharp, and when Justin blinks his vision back into focus Giriko is looking at his throat instead of his eyes or his mouth, and his mouth is open and his breath is coming fast, and for a moment Justin doesn’t care that he’s never kissed anyone before Giriko, that he never expected to want or need anyone else, all he wants is to be less his clothes and under the chainsaw’s body, his mouth tangled together with Giriko’s until he forgets who is who.

“Okay,” Giriko says, and he shoves back from the priest, drags the back of his hand over his mouth like Justin’s lips were coated in poison. The priest’s eyes follow the movement, stall when Giriko’s hand does, and after a long moment he manages to look up and meet those grey-brown eyes.

Giriko swallows, drops his hand, and brings up his other to stab a finger in Justin’s direction. “We’re  _even_. Understand?  _Even_.”

Justin isn’t sure what he does. He might nod, he might whimper, he might reach for Giriko. Whatever it is, Giriko hisses and turns away, bolts out of the hallway like Justin is trying to kill him, and Justin drops his weight back against the door and tries to catch his breath until his legs can support his own weight again.


	3. Pain

Justin is out on the couch when Giriko comes out of his room, hair tangled with sleep and eyes blurred with probably a hangover of some sort. The priest has his headphones in, music piping directly into his brain while he idly tracks the movement of the figures on the television and waits for the chainsaw to emerge. He has been waiting for hours, waiting until his blood is so tight with anticipation that he can feel the other weapon’s footfalls vibrate over the floor even without hearing the sound of his approach.

He looks up and Giriko freezes mid-stride. The chainsaw is touching his mouth, fingers sliding over his lips, and the movement draws Justin’s eyes like they were always meant to focus there. Giriko locked himself in his room last night, nearly silent behind his wall until Justin gave up waiting for him to reemerge and went to his own, laid flat on the floor and shut his eyes and listened to the faint shift of the other weapon carried to him on the movement of the floorboards.

From the chainsaw’s expression, he didn’t realize Justin was still in the apartment. Justin has been silent since he got up, turned the TV on but the sound off, and has been motionless on the couch since then. When Giriko drops his hand Justin pulls his eyes free, looks up to the chainsaw’s eyes instead of his mouth. Giriko is staring at him, nearly leaning back as if he’s thinking about running, and Justin doesn’t know how to look more nonthreatening than he already does. He looks down, takes in the skew of the white shirt on Giriko’s shoulders, the hang of his pants on his hips, the tendons tight across the tops of his bare feet.

When he looks back up Giriko is talking, halfway through a sentence, and Justin only catches the tail end of the words on his lips.

“-- better fucking  _stop_.”

“Sorry?” he asks.

He doesn’t do anything in particular to the word, just automatically asks for clarification now that he is paying attention, but Giriko flinches like Justin has threatened to slap him.

Justin can feel his face twisting into confusion, opens his mouth to ask for further detail. “What did you --”

Giriko comes forward, covering the space between them with his long strides, and is swinging over the end of the couch before Justin has finished his sentence. The priest twists sideways to avoid getting stepped on and Giriko drops over him, inches from his face when seconds ago he was across the room, and everything Justin was about to say goes out of his head.

Giriko is talking, saying something but he is too close for Justin to pick out the individual movements of his lips. There is a pull against his ears, his music cuts off, and then Giriko flicks his hand sideways and tosses Justin’s headphones to skid across the floor.

Justin can feel the hum of Giriko’s voice when he speaks like it is plugged into his skeleton, rolling warm over his bones and muscles. “Don’t want you to  _miss_  anything,” he says, and then his mouth is against Justin’s and they are both toppling backward into the couch cushions.

Giriko’s fingers are against Justin’s hair and his other hand is digging into the priest’s hip through his clothes and Justin is still, frozen in shock where he landed under Giriko, but his skin is trying to lift off his body and Giriko’s legs are pinning him down, and when he shifts his knee to the side and the other weapon fits between his thighs Giriko hisses into his mouth, nips against his lower lip with those teeth so they leave an indentation of blood, and  _that_  brings Justin’s hands into the game. They reach for hair, skin, clothes, whatever he can reach, pulling his body against Giriko’s as if there is any space between them to start with.

The chainsaw is cursing against his mouth, a steady stream of “fuck”s spilling over Justin’s tongue, and the priest swallows like he can inhale the vulgarity straight into his bloodstream. Fingers close against the soft edge of Justin’s white t-shirt, pull upward, and then there is rough texture of skin over Justin’s stomach and he gasps, arches his back up into the touch, feels all his blood rush over the surface of his skin and knot low in his stomach.

There is a broken laugh against his mouth, Giriko pulls back far enough that he can swallow but not so far that Justin can see anything but the grey flecks of his eyes in his blurred vision.

“Did you do this on  _purpose_?” It swings up at the end like a question, but the words are biting and harsh like a demand. Justin whines, strains his muscles up to press into Giriko wherever he can because he doesn’t understand the words or the question or the request.

“Fuck,” Giriko hisses once more for good measure. “I was ready for your  _fucking_  robes,” and the curse turns into an adjective in his throat so Justin can’t breathe. “Not for a see-through shirt and no shoes.”

Justin hooks his leg up around Giriko’s waist and digs his toes against the back of the chainsaw’s thigh. Giriko’s weight comes down on his hip and it hurts but not enough to overcome the breathtaking satisfaction of being pinned in place by the other weapon.

Giriko curses again, slides his hand hard over Justin’s hip, and when his little finger catches under the edge of waistband Justin sucks in air and angles his hips up into the touch without meaning to. Giriko exhales in very nearly a laugh, brings the rest of his fingers to join the first, and Justin is not sure he will be able to survive the whip of fire under his skin that snaps out from the contact.

Giriko’s tongue comes past his teeth and lips, drags over Justin’s top lip like he is lapping sugar off the edge of a glass before he pulls back so Justin can see the faint flush of blood over his cheeks, the part to his lips, the question in one raised eyebrow.

“Have you done this before?” The chainsaw sounds oddly calm, businesslike even as his hand pulls sideways and free of Justin’s pants, undoes the button one-handed.

Justin shakes his head. He can’t remember how to talk.

Giriko’s second eyebrow comes up to join the first as Justin’s zipper comes down. “Not  _ever_?”

Justin shakes his head again. He can’t look away from the movement of Giriko’s mouth, the way his lips are swollen with contact and catch on each other when he speaks, the way his tongue comes out to slide over the lower one.

“ _Fuck_.” It sounds like an actual curse this time and a lot less like an invitation even as his fingers curl over Justin’s erection and blow all attention right out of the priest’s head. “You shouldn’t be starting with me.” Giriko pulls, his loose hold counteracted by the friction of cloth between his hand and Justin’s skin. Justin makes a strangled sound far back in his throat and Giriko leans in, breathes in against the hair falling over Justin’s forehead.

“You  _would_  be a virgin,” he mutters, but with his headphones out Justin is catching every word against his eardrums and his skin both, and besides he can feel Giriko’s own cock twitch against the inside of his thigh in spite of the frustration under his words. He lets Giriko’s hair go, reaches down to press his palm against the tight-pulled fabric of the chainsaw’s pants and hopes that intent counts for more than skill in the moment.

Giriko hisses, exhales hard so Justin’s hair flutters over his forehead, and Justin talks fast before he can forget how to speak and before Giriko moves his hand again. “No, please, I  _want_  it to be you, please, please, don’t worry about me.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Giriko growls, and slides his hand back down so Justin’s lungs empty in a gasp before he can think to respond. This is going  _well_ , Giriko is  _touching_  him and his mouth is burning with the taste of metal and this is more than he expected or hoped for but he is talking anyway, words spilling out in a desperate attempt to reclaim what is slipping away.

“No, I  _know_ ,  _please_ , I want you to  _fuck_  me, Giriko.” The verb is harsh over his tongue. It is odd to hear the familiar word in his own voice, especially with the echoed purr on the vowel that Giriko infused it with, but his lips shift satisfyingly into the consonants and all his blood fires with the sound.

The chainsaw  _groans_ , Justin can feel the tension jerk in his cock and tighten his fingers, and when he hisses, “Say it again,” Justin knows he has won.

He sucks in air, stabilizes his voice, and drops into a register so low he can feel it under his skin and buzzing in his throat. “ _Fuck_  me.  _Please_.”

Giriko laughs. The sound crackles high in his mouth, and when he tightens his fingers around Justin’s erection and pulls the friction is too much, it hurts as much as it sings into Justin’s blood, but Justin arches into it anyway, can’t imagine doing anything else.

And then the contact is gone, Giriko is getting up and stepping away, and Justin is swinging up and reaching out and doesn’t  _care_  how desperate he looks, he  _is_  desperate, he thought he  _had_  him.

“Wait,” he says, “Wait, come  _back_.”

Giriko reaches out, grabs a fistful of Justin’s hair and holds him still while he comes in close until all Justin can see are those sharp-edged teeth. “I’ll  _be_  back, you want me to go in dry or what?” He throws Justin backward by his hair, and the priest’s head smacks hard against the arm of the couch when he falls but the bruising hurt is secondary to the difficulty he is having breathing. His now-empty hands drop down, one sliding the edge of his pants down and the other dipping down to replace Giriko’s fingers, and it’s not as good as the unfamiliar touch but Justin is entirely sure he is going to die if he doesn’t get more sensation  _right now_.

The advantage to his own hand is that he is at least faintly familiar with his own preferences, can pull hard and fast until his palm is aching, and he is going so quickly that he doesn’t even blush with Giriko comes back out with a bottle in his hand to find him panting and trembling under his own touch. The chainsaw’s eyebrows rise to his hairline, his eyes flicker downward, and Justin can see his convulsive swallow a moment before the chainsaw’s fingers close over the priest’s wrist and drag his fingers free.

“ _Stop_ ,” Giriko manages, although Justin can hear how dry his mouth is with the way his tongue catches against the roof of his mouth. “It will be better if you’re hard.” He swallows again and Justin can hear it this time. “Although watching you jerk off to me has its own appeal.”

Justin whines and arches his back up toward Giriko as his free hand comes in to take over. There’s no rationality left in his head, just the movement of Giriko’s eyelashes when he blinks and the moisture on the other weapon’s lips and the  _burn_  of blood under his own skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Giriko spits, slaps Justin’s hand back with his occupied hand before he pins the priest’s wrist to the couch with his knee. “Are you  _listening_  at all?”

Justin whines and Giriko’s anger snaps into a laugh.

“Guess not.” The chainsaw grabs Justin’s pinned wrist with one of the fingers of his full hand, transfers the other wrist to the same hand so Justin’s hands are back-to-back and tangled up in Giriko’s one. The other weapon balances on the edge of the couch, reaches down with his free hand to grab the edge of pants and boxers, and when Justin angles his hips up he pulls down. There is a moment of confusion, cloth rubbing raw over the angle of hip and knee, and then Justin’s legs are free and there is nothing on him but the thin t-shirt twisted around his chest.

Giriko grabs his hip with one hand, jerks so fast Justin doesn’t have a chance to resist; his body turns with the force without his decision and then he is face-down on the couch. His shoulders are twisted painfully up and back but his erection is down into the couch now, and when he bucks his hips forward he gets at least a little sensation.

Giriko drops his hold on Justin’s wrists. For a minute there is no contact at all but for the angle of Giriko’s leg against Justin’s hip and no sound but the pant of Justin’s own breathing and the shift of Giriko moving where the priest can’t see. Then there’s a hand on his hip, cold and slick, and Giriko’s voice is back, harsh and raw as it was before.

“Hold  _still_ ,” and there is pressure against his skin, movement slippery over the curve of his ass, and Justin identifies the sensation as fingers a breath before Giriko’s hand twists and one slides inside him. He chokes, exhales with a sound that is nearly a scream, because it  _hurts_ , it is chill and invasive and everything in his body is telling him  _no stop stop that shouldn’t_  be _there_  but his cock is twitching hard against the fabric of the couch and that doesn’t make any  _sense_ , and Giriko laughs and there is almost no humor in it at all.

“I told you not to start with me,” he offers, and the invasion goes farther, dips down and Justin didn’t know he  _had_  nerve endings there, he is whining against the fabric and he turns his head into the couch to dampen the sound but it does almost nothing. “It takes some getting used to.”

There’s another finger, close along the knuckle of the first, and Justin wants to tell Giriko no, tell him to stop, but he wants  _more_  too and all that is coming out of his throat is that high whimper.

“Unfortunately I’m not known for my patience,” Giriko says, and then the second finger joins the first and Justin hits a new pitch, jumps an octave, and Giriko laughs entirely without amusement this time and slides his fingers back. For a moment Justin thinks he’s going to pull out, leave Justin where he lies, and the possibility of that loss drops his stomach so when the chainsaw’s fingers come back in it is almost a relief.

Then Giriko does  _something_ , moves his hand in some way Justin can’t specify, and heat bursts along the priest’s spine so the tension drops out of his body and he goes limp, groans into the couch, and then it is gone, there is the sense of intrusion again, but when he sucks in air the whimper sounds a lot more like a plea than a protest.

“Like that?” Giriko’s tone is dark and promising, now, sends aftershocks in the wake of that heat. Justin whines in what he intends as agreement and Giriko shifts again, hand and hips both, and when Justin’s mind clears the other weapon’s weight is between his legs instead of beside him. “Maybe you  _will_  enjoy this after all.”

He slides his fingers free, lets go his hold on the priest’s hip. Justin stays where he is, panting for air into the couch without trying to make sense of the sound of metal and cloth from behind him. Then Giriko’s hand closes on his hair, pulls him up to his knees, and Justin squeaks in pained protest but goes anyway, there’s no way he can fight. Giriko’s mouth breathes hot into his ear and the chainsaw hisses, “Take your shirt off, I want to see your  _skin_.” Justin nods against the pull in his hair, reaches for the hem of his shirt even before Giriko’s hand releases him. The fabric inverts, catches on his hair, an ear, and then it’s free and Justin drops it, forgets about it before it hits the floor. Giriko makes a sound far back in his throat, a growl like an animal, and then his hand hits Justin’s shoulder and shoves him back down to the couch.

“Your fucking  _back_ ,” he manages, like that has any meaning on its own, but his fingers are dragging appreciative across spine and fill in all the things that he doesn’t say aloud. Justin whines, arches his body under that touch, and then Giriko’s free hand is against his thigh and coming up and he can’t breathe from some combination of anticipation and dread. Fingers trail over his skin, Justin sucks in a breath, and Giriko laughs and pulls his hand back. The priest lets go the air, sighs in relief, and then Giriko’s cock butts against him and he can’t breathe at all, either in or out.

The fingers along his spine come down, slide across the dip at his waist, come back up, and close over his shoulder. Giriko leans down, exhales slow against Justin’s ear, and Justin can  _hear_  him inhale to speak and the tension snaps something in his throat, the wall between him and language crumbles, and he spits, “Just  _do_  it.”

Giriko huffs in surprise, laughs sharp, and then his hips come forward and Justin loses track entirely of the chainsaw’s mouth in favor of the signals from his own body. Two fingers was too much, spread him apart past any sort of comfort, and Justin doesn’t know if Giriko really is just that big or if he just needed a third but the pressure is too much, he can’t breathe and he can’t relax and this was a  _mistake_ , and he opens his mouth to protest and Giriko says, “I’m barely even  _inside_  you yet,” and instead of words he makes some awful choking sound, mostly panic but a little bit pleasure because that one word is  _dripping_  with meaning, and then Giriko comes in  _farther_ , and Justin’s body is trying to pull away from the invasion and the pain but there is something gathering at the back of his skull and the base of his spine, some part of him that is going soft and pliant under the attack, and when the chainsaw’s cock slides in another inch everything goes white with heat, a flare of temperature overriding the rest of the input.

Justin comes back to himself a moment later, blinking light from his eyes, and his body is still protesting but more weakly, now, the pressure against those understimulated nerve endings thinking about being something other than pain.

“Justin?” Giriko asks, and Justin doesn’t realize until later that it’s the first time the other weapon has called him by his name. “Are you okay?”

He has to swallow, wet his lips before he can speak. “It  _hurts_.”

There is a pause, the pressure of fingers gripping convulsive-tight against Justin’s hip, and when Giriko speaks his voice is very soft. “You  _like_  it.”

Justin would protest that he doesn’t if it weren’t true, if he couldn’t feel pain bleeding into pleasure alchemically fast with each breath. Instead he whimpers but it sounds like a moan, and when Giriko laughs he can feel the vibration of sound lying flat against his own spine.

“ _Masochist_.” Giriko purrs it like an endearment, and that is all the warning Justin gets before the chainsaw slides back and brings his hips forward again.

Giriko starts talking as he speeds up, increasing his pace until he hits what Justin can distantly identify as a rhythm. It’s mostly cursing, a lot of “fuck”s and “shit”s and his name, a couple times. “You’re so fucking  _tight_ ,” Justin catches just before another flush of white pleasure pours over him, and then later “You really  _do_  like this,  _fuck_ ,” and Justin doesn’t realize why the chainsaw is saying that until Giriko’s fingers brush against the priest’s erection and Justin realizes how  _hard_  he is. But then the meaning starts to fade, there is just the low rumble of Giriko’s voice in Justin’s ears and the slide of his palm against sensitive skin off-beat with his hips and the press of his cock into the priest, and it feels like he is going farther with every thrust but it feels better too, Justin’s body relaxing into the intrusion and the painful pull twisting into an excess of pleasure.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Giriko says, the word hot into Justin’s shoulder, “ _Fuck_.” The letters split apart under his tongue, the rhythm of his hips fractures apart, and his hand on Justin’s cock goes still as the rest of his body spasms into orgasm. Justin is panting, hurting and wanting and entirely, utterly desperate, so when Giriko stays still for too long he tips his weight sideways, reaches down to wrap his fingers over Giriko’s still ones and drag both their hands over his own erection.

Giriko groans into his shoulder, sucks in air, and then his hand is moving again, faster now than it was, and Justin has to bring his hand back to the couch to hold himself steady against the motion. He is whimpering again, eyes squeezed shut against the distraction of sight, and he is  _so_  close, he can feel the pleasure of orgasm just out of reach.

“Fuck,” Giriko says, his voice slightly steadier than it was, and his unoccupied hand digs bruising fingerprints into Justin’s hip. “Come  _on_ , Justin, come while I’m inside you,” and something of the meaning makes it past the rising white behind Justin’s eyes so he moans just early, and Giriko sighs in satisfaction a moment before Justin jerks and comes against the friction of his fingers.


	4. Table

Giriko is having a bad day. He woke up bored, irritated and exhausted in spite of hours of sleep, and the apartment was empty and therefore absent his best source of entertainment in the form of the priest. The TV has been more boring than usual, there is nothing to  _do_  in the house, and he can’t go anywhere without his fucking  _escort_  around to hover at his shoulder. He ends up idly watching the television, commercials and shows and infomercials alike, and he would deny up and down that he’s thinking about Justin the whole time, but by the time the front door opens Giriko has gotten up to check false alarms four times.

He doesn’t move this time, just growls at the television screen before shouting, loud so Justin will hear him over his music, “Where the  _fuck_  have you been?”

“Working,” Justin answers, which is no kind of an answer at all and entirely too calm to suit  _any_  part of Giriko’s mood. The priest comes around the corner into the living room and Giriko looks away, back at the screen, because he  _wasn’t_  watching for the other weapon’s appearance, definitely not. “I see you’ve been expanding your horizons as usual.”

“Maybe if you left me some other  _options_  before abandoning me all day.”

If Giriko was thinking more clearly or speaking more slowly he wouldn’t hand that to Justin; as it is he hears his own words and has just enough time to flinch before Justin  _drawls_  out “If I had known you would miss me so much I would have left a note,  _dear_.”

Giriko’s skin flashes hot with anger instead of embarrassment, and he is twisting up into a seated position on the couch before Justin even gets to the last word. The priest is not-smirking, face entirely blank like Giriko isn’t even a  _person_  but just a piece of furniture, and that face along with the purr on the appropriated diminutive is the most infuriating combination Giriko can remember experiencing in all his centuries of life.

“ _Fuck_  you,” he spits in lieu of a more elegant insult, and shoves himself up and over the back of the couch with a hand braced against the support. He lands on his feet and is coming forward as soon as his shoes hit home, shoulders angled forward for maximum intimidation and teeth bared without his intention. And the fucking priest doesn’t even  _flinch_ , doesn’t look appropriately frightened or apologetic or aggressive, just stays where he is with his arms hanging limp at his sides and that  _damn_  expression on his face.

Giriko is within punching distance when he stalls his advance, swings his weight to one leg and snaps the other out in Justin’s approximate direction. Precision isn’t his strong suit, but with a chain buzzing around his leg it doesn’t  _need_  to be, he can hit face or shoulder or chest and it will do the same amount of damage.

Except he doesn’t hit. Justin’s arm comes up to intercept the kick, moving faster than Giriko thought he’d be able to from his fully relaxed position, and  _nothing_  has changed in his pose or his face except that his arm is up, a silver blade half-extended from his forearm so Giriko can feel the teeth of his saw catch on the edge. Giriko growls, jackknifes his leg down and around to try again, but Justin has two arms and blocks with his other, although at least he’s looking a little more focused now that he has two blades out to hold off Giriko’s attacks. The chainsaw drops his foot, transitions his weight by means of a jump, and tries again with his other leg. This time Justin ducks, cutting the precision so fine his hair shifts as Giriko’s leg brushes past the top of his head to curve a gouge out of the wall behind him.

The priest comes back up at an angle, twisted around to look behind him. “This  _is_  my apartment, I’d appreciate if you were a little gentler with it.”

Giriko hisses wordless rage and brings his leg down to take his balance, takes another stride in. “I’ll do whatever I  _damn_  well please, you’re not my  _keeper_!” The chains are slower on his arms, harder to pull up, but he manages to get an elbow swinging towards Justin’s face nonetheless. Unfortunately  _Justin’s_  weapons are  _very_  fast at this range, and Giriko realizes his error as soon as he feels the cuff close over his wrist.

“I think you’ll find I  _am_ ,” Justin says into his face, and his damn  _eyes_  are still calm and it is  _infuriating_ , Giriko is sure he’d do  _anything_  to get  _some_  sort of reaction from those, and with his arm caught and too close to use his legs he reaches out with his other hand.

He means to pull up the chains, he  _does_ , but they are slow to come and then he has a handful of cloth instead of a spray of blood, and then he pulls hard and he is going to  _bite_  the priest, definitely, and then his mouth crashes against the priest’s and Justin’s eyes go wide and Giriko kisses him instead.

Justin drops his hold on Giriko’s wrist immediately, vanishes the blade along his other forearm and reaches out to grab Giriko’s shirt. This was the plan, yes, now his guard is down and Giriko can...seize a handful of blond hair and pull, apparently, and Justin whines in pain and the sound  _should_  be satisfying,  _should_  plug in direct to Giriko’s pent-up bloodlust, but instead it goes straight to his  _cock_  instead and that is Justin’s fault too, the damn  _priest_  has his  _fucking_  signals crossed and gets  _off_  on pain, how is Giriko supposed to  _fight_  when every whimper is half a moan?

He pulls his mouth back, keeps his hold on Justin’s clothes and hair so he doesn’t move. “ _Fuck_  you,” he spits, hard enough that Justin  _does_  flinch back from the consonants. “What am I supposed to  _do_  with you?”

Justin’s ridiculous eyes are clear and blue and wide like he’s never seen Giriko before, but when he speaks it’s still  _level_  like he’s not got his hands fisted in Giriko’s clothes and didn’t just groan against Giriko’s mouth. “You said it.”

Giriko blinks at him, has to take a minute to process what the priest is talking about. “What the  _fuck_  are you --” Then it clicks, and Justin raises an eyebrow at him and the priest’s not the  _only_  one with fucked-up kinks, apparently, because Giriko can’t decide if the expression is more infuriating or arousing.

Okay. Fine. He can handle that easily enough.

Justin’s already nearly against the wall, but Giriko slams him back into it for good measure. The priest gasps for air but his expression doesn’t flicker, so Giriko steps in closer and angles a leg between the priest’s.

“Come  _on_ , don’t I get any reaction at all?” he asks. He can feel Justin half-hard against his thigh but the kid doesn’t show it on his face, just tips his head and  _smirks_  and says, “Maybe you need to  _try_  harder,” and  _that_  is fury, now, surging through his veins, and when Giriko growls and shoves Justin up against the wall to pin him in place it’s deliberately too hard and too fast.

“How  _hard_  do you  _want_?” he hisses against Justin’s ear, and then he sets his teeth against the kid’s earlobe and bites, hard enough that the skin gives way and Justin makes a little wailing sound of pain and his body flinches involuntarily, but his cock is stiffening too, and when Giriko digs his knee up a little too hard -- he can’t quite make that into the sharp blow he  _wants_  it to be, not even for Justin -- the priest’s hands tighten convulsively and he gasps out a lungful of air.

Giriko lets Justin’s ear go, licks blood off his lip, and blood is  _blood_  it doesn’t really  _taste_  any different, but his nose is right against the back of Justin’s neck so he can smell the unnaturally clean soapy scent of the priest and he imagines the blood tastes different too, brighter and sharper like the kid’s weapon form.

That’s alarmingly close to  _sentiment_ , though, and he lets his hold go from Justin’s robes -- he’s not going anywhere right now anyway -- so he can grab him at the juncture of throat and shoulder, dig his thumb against the pulse point against his neck and feel his racing heartbeat even if it’s not showing on his face.

“Don’t  _pretend_  you don’t like this,” he says against Justin’s ear, and the priest tips his head to the side to give Giriko better access. “Not when I can  _feel_  you fucking getting off on it.”

Justin laughs, and the sound is choked but sincere for all that, and he can’t  _move_  anywhere but Giriko can still feel the shift in his hips as he tries to grind for more friction. “I never said I  _didn’t_.”

“Your  _face_  sure looks goddamn unimpressed.”

“ _Really_ ,” Justin half-laughs, and when Giriko pulls back to look at his face the priest blinks and his eyes go entirely  _dark_ , smoky and  _hungry_ , and then he shuts his eyes and swallows and when he opens them the taunting calm is there again. “Maybe you’re just not  _looking_  hard enough.”

Giriko opens his mouth and all that comes out is a low groan and he absolutely  _needs_  that look on Justin’s face again, the priest looked like that the  _first_  time when Giriko found him breathless and gasping on the couch as he jerked himself off. He lets go of Justin’s hair, replaces the weight of his leg with that of his palm, and now he can  _feel_  the hint of details under the more sensitive skin of his hand but there’s not  _enough_ , it’s tempting to let Justin grind himself to climax against his palm without ever taking his clothes off but not enough, and instead he drops the contact and steps back.

“ _Off_ ,” he hisses, gesturing vaguely to encompass everything covering Justin’s body. “Take it  _off_.”

Justin is leaning back against the wall like he can’t hold himself up but he nods, starts at his clothes but Giriko doesn’t wait for more,  _he’s_  got too much on as well, and he starts with his pants as the most important obstacle. Justin somehow strips himself of robe and shirt and shoes in the time it takes Giriko to get his pants open and off, and his pants are halfway undone by the time Giriko comes back in to take over.

“You’re  _fast_ ,” he growls, and  _that_  is much better, all smooth skin and narrow shoulders and thin bones under his fingers and he can  _see_  when Justin stutters a breath, now, can see the ripples of trembling when he touches him, all the self-control in the world can’t cover  _that_. Their fingers catch on each other as they both try to shove the priest’s pants free at once, Giriko can feel the other weapon’s fingers shaking with they touch each other, and he’s not kissing him but Justin is tipping his face up like he’s expecting the contact, and when none is forthcoming he whimpers in frustration.

Giriko grins. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The pants come free and Justin kicks out of them, grinds himself up against Giriko’s bare thigh without waiting for any kind of additional lead-in and good  _fuck_  he’s hard, Giriko’s own erection twitches at the feel of Justin against his skin. Then he does close the distance, covers Justin’s mouth with his own, and Justin  _groans_  against his lips and opens his mouth wide without waiting for any sort of prompt. Giriko’s tongue is past his lips without any deliberation at all, just an instinctive  _taking_  of what is offered. Justin tastes  _amazing_  like he  _always_  fucking does, that was the problem the  _first_  time, that he tasted like mint and heat and no actual person could  _possibly_  taste like that, but  _he_  does it hasn’t  _ever_  changed. Someday Giriko is going to fucking  _fill_  that fucking mouth with come and see what the priest tastes like  _then_ , but for now he slides his tongue hard over the roof of Justin’s mouth and swallows down the sound Justin makes in response, and when the priest’s hands come up into his hair as if he can pull him closer Giriko doesn’t even try to protest.

Justin is tall but thin, of a height with Giriko but maybe two-thirds his weight, and it’s especially evident when he’s stripped of his clothes as he is now. Giriko’s fingers wrap around his hips, just to feel the shift of skin over the sharp-edged bone, and Justin takes advantage of his grip to let Giriko take his weight and wrap his legs around Giriko’s waist. His legs settles just over Giriko’s own hips, so his cock is pressed hard against the chainsaw’s stomach, and he pulls himself forward by his legs and his hold on Giriko’s hair with a purr back in his throat that the other weapon can feel all across his tongue and lips and teeth. The priest sometimes moves like gravity doesn’t quite affect him; even now he doesn’t weigh as much as he should against Giriko’s hips and hands, and the way he is arching his back to press himself against Giriko’s torso is positively unnatural. Giriko can’t find the words to complain, though, isn’t sure he would if he could. Justin is  _radiating_  heat against his skin like a fire, and every time he shifts his hips he is whining into Giriko’s mouth and the sound tastes even better than Justin’s mouth does.

The wall is convenient, runs up against Justin’s bare shoulders, and Justin laughs short at the impact before Giriko takes advantage of the additional support to fit one hand down between them and get a grip on Justin’s cock. Justin shoves back and away at the contact, gasps hard for air, and with the distance Giriko can see his face, the glaze of pleasure seeping into the shattered mask over his blue eyes.

“Justin,” Giriko growls, just to see the way the priest blinks into focus on his face before the chainsaw slides his hand through another stroke and Justin’s whole face shatters into the odd painful tension of approaching orgasm. Usually Giriko does this one-handed while fucking Justin into the couch or the bed or the counter, and while his own cock is demanding more  _soon_  the broken focus in Justin’s eyes and the way his mouth falls open like he can’t remember how to close it is  _really_  enthralling as well.

“Justin,” he says again to punctuate his next stroke, and Justin gasps for air and blinks hard and manages to say “Giriko?” like it’s a question. The sound is breathy, the usual calm of his voice broken apart by rising pleasure, and Giriko groans and has to duck his face against Justin’s neck, and once he’s there he opens his mouth to press the edge of his teeth against the fluttering pulse in Justin’s throat. Justin tips his head away and moans against Giriko’s hair, rocks his hips up against Giriko’s shifting hand and groans, “ _More_ ,” and Giriko jerks his hand faster and sets his teeth harder into skin, and when the sharp edges break the surface to draw blood Justin sucks in air and groans, and his hands go tight on Giriko’s shoulders as he comes across the chainsaw’s hand.

Giriko barely waits until Justin stops pulsing over his fingers before he lets go to set his hands against the priest’s hips instead. The wall is  _great_  for getting Justin off but he needs something lower, flatter to bend the priest over and fuck him into. The first thing Giriko sees is the kitchen table, and while Justin has stopped him from using that before the kid is still trembling against him in the last ripples of orgasm and doesn’t seem like he’s likely to protest. When Giriko steps back from the wall Justin leans forward, tightens his hold on the other weapon, and it’s relatively easy to get him over the intervening distance.

True to Giriko’s hope, Justin doesn’t say a word about the location, lets the chainsaw inelegantly drop him down, and he’s got a handprint of his own come across his hip and a smear of sticky liquid on his stomach and he  _looks_  fucked already, mouth swollen with pressure and the bite marks in his ear and against his throat bleeding sluggishly, and then he arches his back up against the table in a motion that is really  _obscene_  from where Giriko is standing. The other weapon was  _planning_  on going back for lube, leaving Justin sprawled on the table like a present to himself, but when the priest does that little lift of his hips Giriko is reaching for him without thinking, holding his hips up off the table with one hand and reaching to slide inside him with the other.

“Sorry,” he says without any feeling behind it. “This might hurt,” and Justin  _moans_  like Giriko’s promised to blow him till he can’t see straight, and when Giriko actually gets his sticky finger inside the priest the moan turns into almost a wail. Whatever of the mask remained is gone now, entirely, and Giriko grins even though Justin isn’t looking at him and isn’t seeing straight.

“I warned you,” he offers, again without any particular apology, and pulls his hand free to spit over his fingers before trying again. “Better?” but he doesn’t have to ask, Justin’s mouth is falling open and his head is canting back against the table so his neck pulls tight over the  _sound_  he is making, and Giriko laughs and says, “Guess so,” without waiting for any sort of coherent response.

The first time they fucked Giriko was sure he was going to hurt Justin, kind of relished the idea if he’s totally honest with himself. The priest had basically  _seduced_  him with no understanding of what he was getting into or how to proceed, and it would have been kind of darkly amusing to leave him unable to walk for a week. But even when the kid had flinched from the pain his  _face_  had gone uncontrolled with  _want_ , and today is no different. Giriko’s fingers are just barely slippery enough to slide smoothly into Justin, even with the weeks of practice they’ve been putting in, but Justin is rocking up into it even though he hisses when Giriko adds another finger, and when the chainsaw spreads his fingers wider the kid starts to go half-hard again.

Giriko’s reasonably distracted by this for a moment, but then he looks back up at Justin’s glassy expression and his cock decides  _enough, the kid’s had enough_  and he slides his fingers free, strokes himself twice for good measure, and sets his grip back in place across the priest’s hip.

He doesn’t ask Justin if he’s ready, just pulls him back over the flat surface, and if the table were less perfectly smooth the other weapon would be getting some awful splinters from the slide; as it is he slips like the furniture is glass, and then he is  _there_  right where Giriko needs him, and the chainsaw shoves the priest’s knee up high and out of the way and slides inside the other weapon.

Justin  _sighs_  like Giriko is stroking his hair instead of fucking his ass, and that sets Giriko’s teeth on edge almost as much as the satisfaction over his face.

“Fuck you,  _Justin_ ,” he hisses, pulling back to thrust in again.

Justin groans far back in his throat at the sound of his name, brings his hands up to cover his face, and Giriko almost tells him to move them but then the priest  _talks_ , says, “Oh  _God_  Giriko it  _hurts_ , oh  _fuck_  don’t stop,” and suddenly the chainsaw is  _extremely_  glad the priest isn’t seeing his own face because he’s pretty sure his own expression crumbles into totally raw desire for a second. He pulls Justin down the table another inch, thrusts in again, and Justin stops talking and just moans, drags the fingernails one hand down over his neck so hard Giriko can see blood rising under the surface of the scraped skin, and he would get his own fingers around the kid’s throat if he could remember how to loosen his grip, if there were space for anything in his head but the feel of Justin tight and hot around him and the sound of the priest’s moans in his ears.

It’s almost embarrassing, how fast he comes, but without the usual distraction of trying to get Justin off and with the fucking  _sounds_  the priest makes and the way his body is arching up against the surface under him there’s not much of a choice, really, and it’s only a few minutes before Giriko’s body coils tight and he groans “ _Justin_ ,” as he comes into the priest.

It takes him a second to catch his breath, and another to really look at their situation, Justin sprawled out over the table under him and the wood smeared with sweat and come and blood. Giriko has an urge to kiss Justin’s collarbone or to lick the sticky mess at his hip or across his stomach and doesn’t, sternly holds it back because that’s damn close to  _affectionate_  and there is  _no_  space for that in his life.

Justin sighs, and blinks, and Giriko can see confusion come over his features as he realizes where they are. Giriko slides free and Justin sits up, pushing himself up on his elbows so he can look under him, and he groans with actual frustration instead of physical pleasure.

“ _Fuck_. The table? Really?”

Giriko shrugs, grins. “I didn’t see you complaining a minute ago.”

“We won’t be able to use this for a  _week_. I don’t even  _like_  takeout that much,” Justin starts to say, so Giriko leans in to bite his lower lip, and whatever the priest was going to say is lost in the involuntarily whine he makes at the hurt.

It’s not until much later, when Giriko is falling asleep, that he realizes that Justin didn’t have his earphones in at all when he came home, and that he can’t remember when that has  _ever_  happened.


End file.
